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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29782902">all and then most of you</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/koisurufortunecookie/pseuds/koisurufortunecookie'>koisurufortunecookie</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Centricide (Webseries)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Ambiguous/Open Ending, Drinking &amp; Talking, F/F, Flirting, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Song: The Night We Met (Lord Huron), well. not open. just ambiguous. but thats not a tag</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-01</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-16 02:29:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,529</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29782902</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/koisurufortunecookie/pseuds/koisurufortunecookie</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The leftists sit together in the midst of one of Commie's alcoholic binges. They talk about their history, their memories, and about each other. </p><p>(Something isn't right, but when is it ever?)</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Anarcho-Communism/Communism (Centricide)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>39</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>all and then most of you</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hi it's me! did you know i write stuff where no lesbian sex happens? (ok they do TALK about sex here but nothing happens)</p><p>anyways, i've been chewing on this idea for a bit and decided to finally put it to writing! also, did you know the song the title/theme of this fic is from was the ending theme to a certain controversial teen drama? i didn't. i just really like lord huron lmfao. every time i listen to either this song or frozen pines i cry a little and i don't know why.</p><p>i'm not providing content warnings at the bottom this time, mostly because there isn't really much warranting it, but i will give you a heads up here for some brief talk of sex, a few descriptions of gore, and a non-graphic emetophobia instance near the end.</p><p>that's all! i hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>When Commie comes to, the world is spinning hard enough that she nearly falls right out of her chair. It’s only her grip on the table she was previously passed out on that keeps her from sliding onto the kitchen tiles. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>God. What the fuck was going on again? Her eyes struggle to focus, the lights around her too bright to make it an easy task. That was her shitty old radio beside her, playing some indistinguishable song quietly. As soon as she could keep her vision from crossing, a very familiar item caught her view- a vodka bottle, half empty next to a well-used plastic shot glass. Shit, that was it, wasn’t it? She’d been drinking and passed out for a minute. Or two, maybe. Commie’s gaze passes over to the stove, all too close to her cheap plastic table in this tiny apartment, and checks the time. It’s almost midnight, but that’s not too helpful considering she just realized she has no memory of when she started drinking.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It… She was celebrating something? No, that didn’t seem right. Her body was tense, weight holding her down as if it wanted to drag her through the stained tiles of the floor below. It wasn't a celebration. Commie groans, pouring herself a shot more out of instinct than anything else. It wakes her up, or at least perks her up slightly. Whether it’s the shot that improved her vision enough for her to get a non-blurred look at the staircase outside of the kitchen is anyone’s guess, but Commie wasn’t going to waste time pondering the relationship of alcohol to her vision- not when a shadow appeared on the staircase, followed quickly by Ancom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They were still dressed from the day, that familiar plaid miniskirt and ragged fishnets, which was unusual. Ancom was generally quick to get out of their elaborate getups and into some comfier clothes whenever they were home. Their cropped hoodie rides up a bit further as they raise their hand to rub at one eye sleepily, though they freeze at the bottom of the stairwell as their gaze locks onto the lonely table in the kitchen, and then onto Commie.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was around that point when the left authoritarian realized how bad she must look- even putting aside the half-empty liter of vodka in front of her, the stickiness on her cheeks suggests that her eye makeup is probably smeared down her face in streaks. But Commie is drunk enough to not really care how much of a sad alcoholic she looks like </span>
  <em>
    <span>(how much of a sad alcoholic she actually is)</span>
  </em>
  <span> or to be embarrassed. Ancom sighs as they take the scene in. “You know drinking alone is a real bad sign, right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, duh. Commie just shrugs, slams her shot before speaking again. “Don’t waste judgement on me. You get high alone all the time.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The burn on her lips from the vodka is fit to match the sudden burn on her cheeks as Ancom’s lips curve into a smile, green eyes crinkling in that catlike way. “Not judging, just observing. I did just smoke a bowl.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How unexpected.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancom rolls their eyes at Commie’s sardonic tone, finally taking the last few steps down the stairs and entering through the arch into the kitchen. “I came down here to get some water, but I guess I’m staying here. I’m not letting you get blasted all alone and break another cabinet door like the Hulk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cheeks heating up even more, Commie huffs, gaze falling down on her shot glass as she refills it. “I didn’t do it on purpose. I slipped and tried to grab the handle to steady myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Intent doesn’t really matter when it comes to things like that.” Striding fully into the room, Ancom makes a beeline for that very cabinet, still missing a door, to grab a glass. “The landlord’s gonna be pissed until you fix it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Fuck that capitalist bastard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, definitely fuck that capitalist bastard,” Ancom agrees as she goes to fill their cup with tap water, smacking the faucet a few times to turn the water cold (it, like much of the apartment, had issues), “But it’s a shitty reality.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie feels like she’s on the verge of remembering something, but then Ancom leans over a little to fiddle with the faucet some more. Their skirt rides up a bit, showing off more thigh, and Commie’s mouth is suddenly drier than a desert. Though it probably won’t help with that, she quickly takes a shot just to have something to do. “Not for long. Revolution is coming.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Our work has been going especially well, hasn’t it?” Ancom turns the faucet off, bringing their glass over and taking a seat opposite Commie at the table. Glancing over to the radio, they fiddle with the dial, stopping as the static fades and </span>
  <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=RmBrsweF3gs">
    <span>a quiet song starts playing.</span>
  </a>
  <span> “The humans are managing well. We’re at a turning point.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was true- everything had picked up so rapidly lately. One catastrophe of capitalism after the other had led a whole lot of people to abandon their Red Scare mindsets very quickly in search of anything that could save them. Commie remembered a certain beloved man’s words from a century prior, how they still stood true now- these were the weeks where decades happened. It wasn’t like she hadn’t been working hard before, but the sudden surge of attention  was almost overwhelming. “That’s true. I met a few of my comrades earlier to discuss just that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh?” Ancom’s eyes flick up as they settle comfortably into their seat (or as comfortably as the rickety plastic chair will allow). “What did you guys talk about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“... I knew at some point. Then I started drinking.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sighing again, Ancom traces the area around their cup with their finger, short red and black nails sliding across the table. “That’s pretty bad, you know. If you’re hoping for a revolution, you’re gonna need to cut down on the drinking. Can you really afford to, I dunno, get hospitalized with pancreatitis or something now of all times?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie grumbles under her breath, taking another shot almost out of spite before speaking. “Once again, you’re high all the time. Worry about your own substance use before mine.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know you’re stuck in the last century and all weird and puritanical about drugs, but weed isn’t nearly as damaging as-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not just weed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancom’s mouth closes quickly, their gaze darting down to the table. Commie stares them between the eyes, feeling her vision lose focus once or twice before her words come out. “Don’t think I didn’t see all those drafts of fake prescriptions in your handwriting while we were working on the centricide, or that I’m stupid enough to believe that ‘dry air’ excuse you give me for the chronic nosebleeds. You’re using again, and you’re not hiding it very well.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now it was the anarchist’s turn to grumble to themself, still not meeting Commie’s gaze, as if suddenly the stained floor below them had become enthralling. “... We’re both messed up, then. We always have been.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Not always.” Pouring herself another shot, Commie held it in between her hands instead of instantly talking it. She didn’t know if it was the cold liquor responsible for the sudden chill in her body, but she could at least try and warm the pungent liquid first. “When we first became acquainted, we were very dignified ladies.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s one way to put it.” Ancom snorts, seemingly having recovered somewhat from that brief bout of melancholy. “It was night, yeah? During our first meeting.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was, at least in Commie’s memory. “That’s correct. Our tank crew got held up at the border after the others passed through, so we didn’t arrive until late in the night. You still came out to greet us.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, we needed to keep tabs on who was there and what they brought.” Although they reply with a cool tone, Ancom is back to smiling softly. “Plus, I heard there was a woman with that crew. I wasn’t just not gonna come check you out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie laughs loudly enough that she almost surprises herself, taking her shot after she’s done with the chuckles. “‘Check me out’ in what way?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Ancom snickers, though it fades rather quickly. “It was cool out, cooler than usual. There was a nice breeze.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Nodding, Commie pauses, allowing the alcohol-induced heat to roll over her body like an old friend. It tempered out the memories of the brisk evening air, the communist closing her eyes momentarily. “... Can you talk about it a little more? About what you remember from that night, that is. I’m having trouble putting everything together right now.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There’s the sound of Ancom sipping their water before a response comes. “Sure. There’d been a battle the day before you arrived. Not a battle, actually- more a minor skirmish with the nationalists. We didn’t lose anyone, but there were some injuries. I remember thinking that there was one young guy from an overseas volunteer brigade who definitely wasn’t going to make it. He’d only gotten cut by some scrap metal, but he didn’t tell anyone, and by the time he collapsed in the dining tent during dinner, the wound was infected already.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>By the time Commie opens her eyes again, the anarchist has their chin in their hand, elbow on the table, as they continue to speak. “Me and a couple of the others had been treating him all night, but it had gotten pretty bad. Everyone was arguing about what to do next, and I just… I needed to think about something else. Anything else. Then I heard about a crew of stragglers arriving from the USSR, one that had a woman gunner, and it was the distraction I needed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie remembered, most of the time. At least when she was sober. So… Some of the time, she supposes. But even inebriated to this point, she can recall how Ancom looked. She doesn’t even realize she’s saying it out loud for a moment. “I remember turning with a bag over my shoulder, and you were there. You’d obviously been crying. Tear-stained cheeks in the starlight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The light shines on Ancom even now, although instead of twinkling stars, it’s the cheap bulb in the ceiling lamp dotted with dead bugs. Their smile, though, is still as pretty as it was all those years ago. “Yeah. I’ve never been the best at keeping my feelings hidden, in case you somehow didn’t notice.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cocking an eyebrow dramatically, Commie feels a grin start to form on her warm face. “Really now? That’s news to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Rolling their eyes at the authoritarian’s sarcasm, Ancom’s free hand goes to play with one of their pigtails, fluffy black hair twirling around one digit. “Well gee willikers Commie, glad you finally figured it out.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ehehe. ‘Willikers’.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hilarious, I know.” Taking a moment to stretch (ever catlike, this one), Ancom cringes briefly, the anarchist pausing to rub their head. Commie is about to ask them if they’re alright when they start talking again. “Mm. I know this is the whole 1930s cisheteronormativity shit talking, but I didn’t actually realize you were a girl until you got a little closer to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie can figure that- her long red hair was firmly tied in a bun at that point in time, and she had always stood at an imposing six feet tall. In the dark, in that mens uniform, it wouldn’t be hard to make that mistake. “And when you realized I wasn’t a man?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I pretty much realized you were an ideology right away. Partially because your eyes were red, but like… It’s the feeling.” They lower their arms, moving their hands around a bit. “You know what I’m talking about, right? When you just see some woman you’ve never met before, and you just </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> she’s also one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie nods, pouring herself another shot. It had been a few minutes since her last one, after all. Couldn’t risk letting herself sober up and face whatever she’d started drinking to avoid in the first place. “I think I do. That gut feeling.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You get it.” Ancom is politely trying to hide their mix of disdain and worry as Commie pounds the shot, which is nice of them. “But yeah. When I saw you and realized you were the woman, and then I got a closer look at your face, it was just… ‘Oh! So she came all the way here?’. I thought you’d still be fighting the war on the Eastern front.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I lost a sniper battle a few months prior to me getting sent to Spain.” Commie instinctively rubs a little above her right eye at the memory of the bullet. She’d only been conscious for a millisecond before she’d died, but </span>
  <em>
    <span>fuck, </span>
  </em>
  <span>it had hurt. “So when I eventually resurrected, the higher-ups who knew about me decided to send me away from the Eastern Front for some time. Wouldn’t do any good if my comrades saw the woman they buried up and walking again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Nodding, Ancom looks… Commie’s not actually sure what that expression is. Her vision is blurring again, and by the time she corrects her cross-eyed gaze, the anarchist looks as they always do. “Ah, just returning to combat after a death. No wonder you had those scared eyes for a while. Guess nobody was eager to reveal earth-shattering secrets to half of the Red Army and all. Good thing death isn’t all that permanent.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mmhm. ‘Goddesses of the modern day’ and all.” Refilling her shot, a poignant stare from Ancom leads her to not take it instantly. “Head wounds, though… They take a while. Once it was a full year before I came back.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s still not sure what caused that one. Commie suspects it was a beheading in Guatemala, but she’s not totally confident. Memories of each specific cause of death she experienced often didn’t return for decades. She only knew about the sniper incident so quickly due to a commander who was in on the whole ‘human ideology’ secret informing her about the tragic loss her comrades had wept for once she found her way back to headquarters several months later. Amidst all this reminiscing, she realizes Ancom has been snapping their fingers in front of her face. “Commie? Commie. You’re gonna pass out again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Is she? Commie realizes there’s black in the corner of her vision. She straightens her back, shakes her head a bit, tries to steady her mind as it rolls around in her skull. Probably a bad idea to pass out in front of Ancom. They’d either laugh at her or pity her, and Commie isn’t sure which is worse. “Sorry. Had a moment."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“If I get you a glass of water, will you at least have some of that in between the shots?” They look at her with slightly reddened eyes- not from tears this time, just from the weed. And probably something a whole lot harder, if the tiny pinprick pupils in a sea of green are any indication. Commie just nods, and the anarchist gets to their feet to gather her a glass. They speak as they reach into the busted cupboard. “Good. Stay hydrated.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I will if you’ll keep talking to me.” At this point, Commie is drunk enough that she doesn’t even realize the somewhat desperate undertones of her words- as much as she denies it while sober, having Ancom near her is very pleasant. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The anarchist pauses in what seems like surprise as they fill up the glass, though their lips curve into a smile by the time they’re turning off the faucet. “... Sure. I got no problem doing that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you remember anything else?” Commie asks by the time Ancom has sat back down and pushed her cup across the table. “Just… About us. All the time we spent together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Cocking their head, Ancom motions for Commie to drink the water, which she does. “I do, but you still have those memories, yeah? Don’t tell me you’re getting senile on me. I’m older than you, y’know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only by a few decades. But I remember best when I’m sober.” Commie replies, wiping the dribbled water off her chin. “I just like hearing how you remember it. It’s like experiencing it all over again in a new way.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancom actually laughs out loud, a melody in the echoing apartment. “Haha, man, turns out all I need to turn you into a cheesy mess is enough vodka to kill a horse. But… Hm. Guess it’s a question of where to start. How about a little later in the war, with the partisans in Yugoslavia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The partisans in question were a vast group- many sat closer to Commie’s position than Ancom’s, but when fascism came knocking at the door, arguments on the nature of the state were quickly put aside in favour of picking up guns. All of it was something Commie remembered quite well (when she wasn’t a liter and a half of vodka deep, that is).  “Sounds good to me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Great.” It seems like Ancom is on the same mental page as she is, the anarchist humming in thought. “There was originally some debate on who to join up with, but the choice was pretty obvious to everyone I talked to. Like, who else were we gonna work with against the fascists? The fucking Chetniks? Monarchism is just fascism with some extra trimmings. But anyways, I didn’t expect to see you there at that point. I’m assuming you got shot and popped back up in Yugoslavia?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t uncommon to die in one country and finally reanimate only to realize you’re tens of thousands of miles away from where your last breath had been taken. In fact, it was frequent enough that Commie knows some ideologies joke about it- </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘I went out drinking in Italy and woke up four months later in Thailand!’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. That sort of thing. She has her own theory about it, that maybe they came back up where they were needed most or where their influence was rising. It would explain how many times she’d kicked the bucket in the USSR and then regained consciousness in any number of South American countries. But like so much else surrounding their inexplicable existences, nobody really knew for sure. Another mystery to add to the pile. “You’re correct.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“One point for me.” Ancom takes a sip of their water, Commie quickly doing the same with the reminder of the presence of her non-alcoholic beverage. “Same thing happened to get me there, more or less. Still, it was nice to team up with you again. Nothing quite like shooting Nazis to bring people together.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Very true.” Chuckling to herself, Commie takes another shot, hoping Ancom doesn’t notice. Judging by the sigh, though, they definitely did. Oh well. “You played the role of innocent little damsel so well whenever we hid out in occupied towns.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The anarchist’s eyes light up, a smile forming quickly. “Oh shit, you remember that too?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How could I forget something like that?” Commie finds herself mirroring their smile. “Pretty, sweet barmaid who spoke just enough German to flirt with the soldiers she was waiting on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was routine, one Ancom seems to remember very well. “Take one by the hand, bat my eyelashes, whisper I had something to show him out back…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You weren’t lying. Another partisan waiting with a pistol was certainly something to see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancom giggles at the memory, resting their chin in their palm. “That was definitely preferable to when we had to play the long game, like if we were targeting a commander or something. They tended to be more careful than the soldiers. I had to put my money where my mouth was and actually sleep with a few of them to buy time. Fascists don’t care if you came or not, it’s the worst.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That brings out a full-on belly laugh from Commie, moving quickly enough that she almost knocks her water over. “Pfft- </span>
  <em>
    <span>that </span>
  </em>
  <span>was your issue with it?!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Listen, if you gotta put out for someone as gross as a Nazi, you’d at least hope for an orgasm outta the whole affair!” Throwing their hands up, the sudden movement seems to have produced the same pain as last time, as Ancom is quick to lower their arms and rub their temples. Although, they do keep one eye open along with a playful expression. “I think our time with the partisans was the first time you and I slept together, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>If Commie wasn’t so drunk, maybe that reminder would have made her blush and stammer. But her inhibitions have long since left her, and so she simply nods at the statement. “It was a village a couple hours north of Sarajevo. We’d gotten separated from the others while escaping a group of soldiers.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good thing that abandoned barn didn’t have any locks on the doors.” Ancom hums a tune- Commie recognizes it as an old partisan song, but she can’t remember the name. “Although that made it scarier in a way. I had no idea if a soldier was going to kick in the door and see us hiding in the corner in the horse blankets.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had been petrifying. Even when you know you’ll come back from death, it doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt, that it isn’t agonizing feeling your consciousness slow down as the last drops of existence leave you even as you try with everything you have to hold onto it. Every single life Commie has ever lost has her claw marks on it, metaphorically speaking. The authoritarian remembers how wide Ancom’s eyes were for a while, filled with terror that she was probably mirroring right back at them at every noise outside the barn. Though after some time, that lessened a bit. “Still, we managed.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Chuckling a bit, Ancom nods against their hand. “Yeah, after a couple hours pressed against each other, scared out of our fucking minds and trying not to move at all. I guess fear and arousal kinda are two sides of the same coin. Both get your mind all worked up, at least.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>While taking a sip of water, Commie ponders that. It would be a good explanation for how almost instantly after they’d identified an awful noise outside to not be a soldier’s boots but just a lynx passing by, the leftists’ eyes had locked, they’d realized how tight their grip on the other one’s waist was, and the rest was history. “Makes sense. Still not very romantic, though.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know this says more about me and less about the quality of the location, but in my grand ranking of places where I’ve eaten girls out, ‘on top of a bunch of straw and horse blankets in a barn outside of Sarajevo during a war’ isn’t all that close to the bottom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie almost spits out her water, having to cover her mouth to force the liquid down as she laughs. It’s a good minute of Ancom grinning at her until the authoritarian can get the hysterics down to a light chuckle. “Seriously, you’re the worst!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“By which you mean the best.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Maybe, maybe.” Still, with all that talk settling in her mind… Rose red eyes lift up to examine Ancom, from their clear tawny skin to the curves of their body visible through and past their cropped hoodie. “... Speaking of, it’s just you and me here. Do you want to…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ancom seems to get what she’s implying, and they shake their head. “Usually I’m down, but you’re absolutely plastered. It would be really shitty of me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m not that dr-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, you are.” Their gaze settles on her face, firm and steady. “My answer is no, not tonight.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie wants to protest the status of her drunkenness, but no is no, and so she settles back. “Alright.” There’s a few seconds of her thoughts swimming around in her mind before her next words come out, with no time for her brain to filter through. “Is it because you’re… Are you still with Anqueer?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The question seems to amuse the anarchist, their expression turning a bit lighter. “It’s because you're drunk and that’s it. I’m still in and out of their circle, if that’s what you mean by ‘with Anqueer’, but even when we’ve actually settled into some kind of formal relationship, it’s always been open. They don’t like being tied down any more than I do, and it wasn’t like we’ve ever been in what you'd consider to be romantic love.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In all honesty, the whole anarchist polycule was so confusing Commie often just gave up on trying to understand the web tying most of them together. So she lies with her response: “I see.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mm.” Ancom probably doesn’t believe her, though they don’t say anything- not in regards to that, or when Commie starts pouring another shot. They’re quiet up until she finishes taking it, voice a little softer. “... Do you believe in love? Or, rather, do you believe people like us are really able to love?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Whenever an ideology spoke of ‘people like us’, it always felt a little off to Commie. In a sense, did they really count as people? They weren’t technically humans- they were collections of the dreams and hopes of humanity, brought into the world and set free to walk with those who unwittingly breathed life into them. Even so, their feelings were so very similar to those of humanity. It was always strange to hear. “That’s a good question. I think we can. We have the emotions humans do.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“True, but we know and experience so much more than they do- than they ever possibly can. With that, do we love in the same way as them?” As Ancom speaks, Commie feels the warmth of the shot pass through her body, a pleasant heat. At least, she thinks that it’s the shot. “But I guess we’d have to define love to keep going, and that’s hard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can try.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Go for it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Closing her eyes, Commie breathes deeply, and thinks. “... It’s when you can’t get someone off your mind. When your thoughts are consumed by them, when everything you do is, at least on some level, for them. When your loyalty is always with them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she reopens and her vision focuses, Ancom’s lips are curved in a small smile, fingers drumming against their cheek as they rest their head in their palm again. “You know, that’s almost funny. Couldn’t you define hate very similarly? Always thinking about them, taking actions solely due to their existence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Without thinking, Commie mirrors their movement, the weight of her head proving to be very heavy in her hand. “But the loyalty part?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Bear with me.” Ancom straightens up, changing from their position. Commie doesn’t understand why she suddenly feels a little disappointed. “When it comes to an enemy- a real, mortal enemy- you can always trust them to act in your worst interest. They’re loyal in their hatred, and you’re loyal right back. I mean, if Nazi came up to you and apologized for every horrible thing she’s done to you over the years… Like, it would fuck your head up, right? </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘Why is she apologizing? Why is my enemy doing this? This isn’t how it works!’</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It would be a betrayal of your hate for each other in the same way, say, a cheater in a monogamous marriage is betraying their love for their spouse.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That… Is shockingly sensible, especially coming from Ancom. Commie genuinely has to sit in silence, pondering their words (though she does pour a shot- multitasking is an important skill in life). In a bizarre way, hate was almost comforting, wasn’t it? A mutual feeling, always knowing the actions of the other, knowing you were on their mind just as they knew they were on yours. “... Huh. I never thought of it like that.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ever read anything by Hanif Abdurraqib? He’s a poet from the States.” Cocking their head, Ancom keeps speaking after Commie shakes her head in the negative. “I’m paraphrasing him a little here, but here’s something of his I like: </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘There is intimacy in the moment where the eyes of two enemies meet. There is a tenderness in knowing what desire ties you to a person. It is a blessing to know someone wants a funeral for you.’</span>
  </em>
  <span>”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Honestly, Commie was still kind of stuck on this. It… It made sense. She doesn’t know why she’s having such a hard time really wrapping her head around it all, but there’s a good chance it’s the alcohol. “It’s a lot to take in.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know it is. But I think it’s worth thinking about anyways.” Bringing up a hand, Ancom keeps their gaze on Commie even as they mimic the hand movements of checking their nails. “Always thinking of the other, totally devoted to them in a specific way, comfort in knowing they’re the same with you… I wonder, is what we have love or hate?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>That’s a mood shift, one Commie can feel in her gut, and she straightens her posture almost as if to reel back. “We… Huh?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought that was pretty clear.” As Commie moves back, Ancom pushes in, once again laying their chin in their hands with their elbows on the table. “Do you love me or hate me?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Their voice is even, youthful features surprisingly serious, and Commie suddenly feels like the cheap plastic table and poor lighting is the set of an interrogation. “I… Does it have to be either? It’s closer to love, isn’t it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You could put it like that.” Humming again, Ancom’s tone rises an octave, girlish and sugary. “Love, in the way a razor loves a wrist. It would be nice if love was enough. Would be nice if love counted for anything at all.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ancom, are you-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The anarchist interrupts before she can finish, their voice back to a more stoic tone. “Commie, I’ve dragged this on for so long, and I don’t think I can keep it up much longer. I need you to stay with me for a minute, and I need to ask you some questions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It doesn’t feel like a matter she has a choice in, Commie staying silent and looking ahead with wide eyes. Ancom takes it as a go-ahead. “I came downstairs to the kitchen, say, fifteen minutes ago? That sound right to you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A quick glance to the stove clock confirms it. “Yes, that’s true.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie hates how uneasy she sounds, how uneasy she feels. But what Ancom says next turns it from bad to worse:</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is it? Because you live in a converted studio.”</span>
</p><p>It takes a few seconds to hit. Even when Commie turns her head to the doorframe Ancom entered through, her head is trying to break down what was just said. Downst-</p><p>They’re in the kitchen. Past the doorframe is the combined bedroom and living room. To the right is the small bathroom. The door leading outside is directly behind her, the apartment leading into the kitchen. That was the floorplan of her cheap apartment.</p><p>There are no stairs.</p><p>“I don’t live with you, Commie.” Ancom’s voice is plain, monotone. “How did I get in here? Did I come down the non-existent stairwell from the second story you don’t have?”</p><p>It’s true, it’s all <em>true. </em>Commie clutches her stomach, drunk heat turning into an ice cold terror. “What- What’s going on? What are-”</p><p>
  <span>Ancom leans in, face completely blank. As the cheap lamp shines a little brighter on their face, there is </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> behind green irises. Incomprehensibly empty. “I came from nowhere, with no reasonable explanation as to why or how. Now, why are you drinking tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the silent room, it’s like a million things are screaming at her all at once. Commie can’t think, she can’t feel, the knot in her stomach feels more like a knife, she doesn’t know she doesn’t know she DOESN’T KNOW-</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>(“I’ve never been out here before. The flowers are so pretty!”)</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Oh.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She knows now.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You didn’t even have the dignity to shoot them in the front.” By the time Commie can wrench her head in Ancom’s direction, body feeling as if every joint is frozen in place by a century and a half worth of rust, the anarchist is standing, staring without any kind of life in them. Their left eye is half-closed, the trauma of the bullet wound just above it behind their bangs having no doubt partially bulged the organ from its socket. The hole itself is hidden behind black bangs, but the thick, almost </span>
  <em>
    <span>creamy </span>
  </em>
  <span>blood that drips down the left half of their face is something Commie can’t look away from. “That was incredibly cowardly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie slides out of her chair, collapsing onto her knees. Her mind is pure static, the silence between first seeing the bomb and the moment where it hits, and she can’t even muster up the energy to scream. “I- You-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“‘You’?” Ancom’s expression changes, the eyebrow on the half of their face that wasn’t partially caved in raising up. “I’m not Ancom. Notice how I lost more and more of Ancom’s speech manners as the conversation carried on? We were practically identical by the end. You’re drunk and on the verge of a psychotic break from stress. You’ve been hallucinating company while you get drunk alone. Nobody was here to give you a glass of water- you’ve just been chugging more vodka straight from the bottle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie’s eyes, wide in horror, move to the table. It’s true- no cup. She’s still in shock mode as Anc- as this </span>
  <em>
    <span>thing</span>
  </em>
  <span> keeps talking. “You were thinking about death earlier in our conversation- how awful it is in that second before your consciousness vanishes. Ancom died confused and terrified.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s hitting her so fast, so forcibly, like a slug to the chest </span>
  <em>
    <span>(like a bullet to the head)</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and before she realizes it, Commie is keeling over and throwing up, emptying the contents of her stomach onto the tiles. ‘Ancom’ watches with a blank face, clinical disinterest as Commie chokes on bile and sobs. “I’m so- I didn’t, I didn’t, I didn’t-!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You did. And why? Was it a mutual vote within your party?” They examine her as one might examine a rotting piece of roadkill on the side of the street- a disgusted pity. Or maybe it’s nothing, Commie trying to get any sort of emotion from their face. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Hate is fine, revulsion is fine, but </span>
  </em>
  <b>
    <em>please look at me with something. </em>
  </b>
  <span>“Of course it wasn’t. Most don’t know what you are, what Ancom was. It was just three people, paranoid about infosec issues that probably weren’t even happening. But you still served as their obedient attack dog. Their well-behaved, pliable bitch.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Please stop, please stop, I’m sorry I’m sorry I’m sorry-“</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The vision’s eyebrow raises again; the blood finally makes its way down their face to hit the floor in thick drops. It vanishes on impact with the tiles, fading into oblivion. “Sure you are, but why are you telling me? I’m a figment of your mind. The person you need to apologize to is face down in a field. It’ll be a while until they come back, and you were just thinking about it earlier- they probably won’t remember how they died for decades. You’ll get to play innocent with them like you didn’t just hamstring their movement without even asking for a reason.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Everything is flooding back. The order given without any group knowledge, the arranged meeting, the long drive out, the rolling field of yellow (the red stains all over the flowers). Commie tries to stand, tries to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything, </span>
  </em>
  <span>but the grief is as much of a weight as the alcohol. ‘Ancom’ watches her struggle, clinical, robotic. “You’re killing yourself, too. Drinking yourself to death is a slow way to go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I didn’t mean it, it wasn’t my fau-”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s bullshit and you know it. I am not some arbiter here to free you.” It feels like she’s being stared through, each part of her stripped down and laid bare at the feet of the manifestation of your guilt, and Commie finds herself weakly crawling to ‘Ancom’, desperate for anything except their continuing blank speech. “It’s okay, isn’t it? The world isn’t ending just because you did everything wrong. Though that would be easier. Make as many excuses as you can, weep and apologize for as long as you want, self-flagellate and call yourself scum. It’s not going to change anything. Ancom trusted you. Maybe they even loved you. But they’re dead, and you’re alive. Now live with it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Shaking hands grab their ankle, Commie looking up at ‘Ancom’ with tears streaming down her face. They’re beautiful, even with a half-destroyed face they are, but like all beauty, they are indifferent. Strings of her hair are peppered with vomit, sticking to her face with sick and tears, and all this vision can do is watch as she sobs, darkness in the corners of her eyes widening. “Don’t go. Please don’t go.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It’s not Ancom, it’s nothing like them, but it’s all she has left. This awful apartment, this bottle of vodka, her suffocating guilt. But everything said was true- this was her choice. Now it was something she had to live with, the empty space where someone else once was. “I can’t. Instead, you’ll fall unconscious. You’ll have a few moments in the morning where you might be content, before you remember who and what you are. And you’ll keep living anyways. It’s all you know.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Commie’s neck finally gives out, head hitting tiles, hands scrabbling at something that isn’t there. Something that never was. There is no poetry, no relief, no god at the bottom of the bottle. There’s just the sound of her choking on tears, on air tainted with blood, on nothing. And like a bullet, the alcohol does its job. There is nothing.</span>
</p>
<hr/><p>
  <em>
    <span>Ancom watches Commie lie there, another mess in the series of disasters that was this apartment. Everyone would be confused. Maybe they’ll assume they skipped town. That would be nice. Ancom will have fun and wild adventures, if only in their memories.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>But for now, they reach down, fully slide Commie’s ushanka off, slide it under her head as a pillow. They remove her long trenchcoat, hanging it neatly on the chair. They spare one last look with their one working eye, at their murderer passed out on her kitchen floor in a mess of guilt and suffering.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Maybe anything they tried together was doomed from the start. A burning building, a broken neck. But without her, nothing felt like love. What a cruel feeling.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Well. No more lingering here- sentiment could only hold you in place for so long. They back up, walking through the wall, out of this macrocosm. Their part in this tragedy was done.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>However Commie chose to bear the weight of living from this point on was up to her.</span>
  </em>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>is it a hallucination? a ghost? It Is A Mystery. everyone i told about this fic idea was in some degree of emotional anguish by the end, which made me know it was a good idea.</p><p>anyways i guess this is technically an offshoot of stars under catalonias timeline, but mostly in the "kale is bad at historical timelines" way instead of preceding or following that story. ah well.</p><p>also hey are you a Fem Political Ideology Enjoyer? ive got a discord server here where we all hang out and discuss politigirls, feel free to hop in!: https://discord.gg/ac53geJdVg</p><p>in any case, thanks for reading! please leave a comment or kudos if you enjoyed, they really mean the world to me. see you soon!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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